


The Safehouse

by Ghostwriter (Zoya_Zalan)



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya_Zalan/pseuds/Ghostwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon deals with the aftermath of a mission gone bad.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/><a href="http://imgbox.com/FvgLxYlr">
      <img/>
    </a><br/>  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	The Safehouse

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: MGM and other people whose names I don't know own all things U.N.C.L.E.; I'm just borrowing. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> This story was written for blackillya in muncle's 2006 Down the Chimney Affair. I was horribly dissatisfied with it at the time. I know it never reached its full potential, but I'm going to toss it out anyway since there's no chance of my doing any revisions. This was the last MFU piece I wrote.

~ * ~ * ~

The hypnotic effect of the blizzard held Napoleon Solo captive as he stared out the window. Countless millions of tiny snowflakes were on the ride of their lives, carried by gale-force winds that sounded like a living, breathing entity in great pain. It was the perfect complement to Napoleon's current mood.

He ran a hand through his hair, sodden with melted snow, sweat, and blood, grimacing at the size of the lump on the side of his head. It hurt like hell, but the injury was superficial; there were more pressing matters to address first.

Unzipping his coat, Napoleon fumbled through layers of clothing until he found his communicator. Fingers numb with cold, it took several tries before he successfully got the cap off and extended the antenna. "Open channel D." Static filled the air. "Open channel D," he repeated more loudly. "Operations, are you receiving?"

Silence.

Frustrated, Napoleon exhaled forcefully, the white vapor of his breath clouding the window pane. Apparently nothing – not even U.N.C.L.E.'s advanced technology – could punch through the atmospheric interference from this storm.

As he disconnected the transmission, Napoleon took a good look around. There wasn't much here: a sink, a dusty, tattered sofa, two folded cots, and a fireplace. Crossing the room, he tested the only visible light switch. Nothing. He tried the water taps next, but they only coughed and belched up a few drops of dirty sludge.

Napoleon closed his eyes. "Wonderful."

A gust of freezing wind assaulted him as the front door flew open and a heavily clad figure stumbled inside carrying a large burlap bag over his shoulder. Shielding his face, Napoleon threw his weight against the door, pushing until he'd finally wrestled it shut again.

The other man dropped his load noisily and tossed back his hood. "The generator is out of fuel," Illya Kuryakin stated, his expression adding several unspoken expletives.

"We could siphon some from the car," Napoleon suggested.

A steely blue gaze drilled through him. "If you would like to walk all the way down and back in this weather, be my guest, Napoleon. I am going to make a fire."

Napoleon pursed his lips as he watched Illya set to work on the bag of firewood. Mindful of the mercurial social temperature hanging between them, he quietly asked, "Water pipes?"

"Frozen," Illya snapped, not bothering to look up.

Great. A botched assignment, a raging snowstorm, inadequate facilities, and a seriously irritated Russian. Could life possibly get any better than this?

Of course it could – they could both be dead. And it would have been Napoleon's fault, too.

"What kind of safehouse is this anyway?" Illya stopped what he was doing long enough to shoot him another venomous glare. "There are no supplies or provisions, no washroom – nobody's been here for years."

"The original."

"What?"

Napoleon glanced around. "This cabin – it's U.N.C.L.E.'s first safehouse."

"Abandoning it was a wise decision," Illya snorted, going back to his task.

Unwilling to provoke his partner's ire any further, Napoleon moved to the back of the room and examined the only other door in the old shelter. The large gaps he found gnawed at the bottom suggested any number of rodents had called this place home over the decades. He opened the door slowly, expecting a flurry of panicked wildlife, but nothing moved.

It was dark inside the small storage area, even with the brilliant whiteness of the snow streaming in through splintered wallboards. Empty wooden shelves lined the back, and there were mounds of dirt and rocks on the bare ground left over from some burrowing animal's attempt at landscaping.

A sparkle of glass caught Napoleon's eye. Reaching down, he picked up the remnants of a bottle of Jack Daniel's, a casualty of the frigid Colorado winters. A waste of perfectly good liquor, he thought, wishing he had some – even a single shot – to warm his chilled body. He tossed the shard aside and took a step forward, peering over the biggest dirt pile. In the farthest corner, propped against the wall, was a large metal basin. Now _this_ could be useful. Napoleon wrestled the derelict from its hiding place and hauled it into the cabin. Ignoring Illya's curious scowl, he stopped long enough to bundle himself back up before dragging it outside.

The wind slammed into him like a shock wave, screaming and pelting him with tiny, stinging ice particles, but Napoleon clenched his jaw and stood his ground, wavering only slightly. Tipping the basin upside down, he pounded the bottom, trying to dislodge any debris left inside of it. He then flipped it back over and scraped away what little was left with his gloves.

Napoleon slowed his movements as a wave of dizziness swept over him, a pointed reminder that he was injured. Plopping down on the nearest snow drift, his back to the wind, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The crisp air made his sinuses quiver and numbed his throbbing head. It would have been a beautiful day if not for the fierce gale. He might have even enjoyed being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no obligations to fulfill and no Thrush idiots on his tail. Hell, he might have been celebrating by now, cracking open the small bottles of liquor he'd filched from the U.N.C.L.E. jet. But not today. Too many things had gone wrong. He had a lot of damage control to run – on any number of personal and professional levels – and the weight of it all rested like a ten pound brick in his gut.

A hand suddenly grasped Napoleon's shoulder, startling him. He shot to his feet and whirled around, steeling himself for a fight, but that only upset his equilibrium further. He swayed helplessly, caught in the wind's fury.

"Napoleon!" Illya grabbed and steadied him. "Go inside."

"We need water," he explained, gesturing weakly towards the basin. Why wouldn't this vertigo calm down?

"I'll take care of it, Napoleon. Now go back inside!"

Too tired to argue, he nodded, moving with slow, careful steps until he'd reached the cabin's entryway. It took all of his strength to get the door closed behind him, but once accomplished, Napoleon made a wobbly beeline for the newly lit fire. Nausea threatened as he sank to the floor, his world spinning wildly, so he took several deep breaths and focused on the blessed warmth radiating from the fireplace. It felt like he was floating when he closed his eyes – just a dark, painful blur that was as light as cotton candy. He could have hovered in that space indefinitely, refereeing the battle between his head and stomach, but that would have been too easy.

Only vaguely registering the loud commotion that accompanied Illya's reappearance, Napoleon was jolted back to reality when the blast of arctic air hit him. He shivered, belatedly realizing that he couldn't stop the tremors.

Illya dragged the basin past him, settling it close to the flames. The heap of snow inside glistened brightly. A strong hand cupped Napoleon's jaw, forcing him to look up.

"Take this," Illya ordered, pressing a small snowball against his lips.

Napoleon did as he was told, sucking on the cold lump until it melted away. The liquid felt good on his throat; he hadn't realized how thirsty he was. "More," he croaked.

"Let's see if that stays down first." The harshness in Illya's voice had gentled somewhat, but Napoleon knew from experience that this didn't necessarily signal an end to his partner's wrath. "You should have told me how badly you'd been hit, Napoleon," Illya continued, brushing his hair aside to examine the wound. "You probably have a concussion."

"I'll live," he murmured, trying to lighten the mood, but the deliberate silence that followed spoke far louder than words.

Swallowing thickly, Napoleon gazed at the melting snow. The pool of guilt he'd been wallowing in was quickly turning into a bed of quicksand. "I'm surprised you didn't just leave me out there."

Illya paused. "Don't give me any ideas."

Napoleon smiled, recognizing the subtle touch of humor in Illya's tone. It was just a tiny wisp of inflection – barely there – but it represented a single pinpoint of light in what had arguably been one of the darkest days in his career.

Another swell of dizziness overtook Napoleon then, his stomach lurching painfully. He only had a moment's warning before his whole body heaved. Bracing himself on shaky arms, he retched for what seemed an eternity, bile burning a path along his esophagus. And as the spasms subsided, a mind-numbing weakness spread through him, causing strange sparkles of color to invade his peripheral vision. They spread inward, growing in size and intensity, until the world finally faded into a soft blanket of darkness.

~ * ~ * ~

It was well after sunset when Napoleon finally awakened. He opened his eyes slowly, relieved to find that he no longer felt queasy. His head still hurt, but the pain had diminished to a tolerable ache. He was lying on the old sofa, which had been moved closer to their only heat source, his head pillowed on a makeshift pile of clothing. Snuggled under his coat, he felt warm for the first time in what seemed like ages as he listened to the fire crackling happily.

A shadow moved in the far corner, drawing closer until it morphed into the familiar features of his partner. "How do you feel?" Illya asked.

Napoleon snorted. "Like I've been hit by a bus."

Illya knelt beside him and placed a hand on his forehead. "No fever; that's a good sign. Do you want some aspirin?"

"That would be nice, thank you," he replied, reaching up to rub his temples. He watched as Illya fetched one of the overnight bags. After digging through the jumble of personal effects, Illya pulled out a small tin of painkillers and Napoleon's shiny, monogrammed flask. Ahhh, leave it to his partner to find the emergency stash...

Illya helped him sit up, and then dropped two white pills into his waiting hand. Tossing them into his mouth, Napoleon reached for the flask. He took a large swill, anticipating the welcoming burn of alcohol, only to choke when his taste buds were caught by surprise.

"What the hell is this?" he coughed.

Illya gave him a withering look. "You need to be hydrated, Napoleon, not dehydrated."

"What did you do with my brandy?"

"It was put to good use," Illya responded smugly.

Napoleon gritted his teeth. Damned Russian.

The day's events suddenly flooded Napoleon's mind, the stark red, black, and white of it all blurring together in a kaleidoscope of death and failure. His breath caught in his chest, and for a moment he feared the dizziness might return, but the hand gripping his shoulder helped to ground him.

"Napoleon?"

He couldn't even look at Illya. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. It was hardly enough.

Illya shifted, settling on the floor so that they were facing each other. An uncomfortable silence hovered between them for several long minutes until Illya finally asked, "Why?"

Such a simple question, yet it stared him down like a rottweiler poised for attack. Napoleon took another drink of water, stalling. "That woman," he finally began, "the one with the red purse–"

"Yes, I know which one it was." Illya's impatient anger had returned, the edge in his voice calm but very deadly. "Another pretty face in a pretty miniskirt. Only this time, instead of waiting until the mission was over, she just happened to appear on the scene at a supremely pivotal moment, distracting you from the group of innocents whose lives hung in the balance, and from your partner, who stood with a gun pointed directly at his head."

Napoleon rubbed at his eyes, his gut clenching when Illya continued.

"How could you have allowed that to happen? Five people–"

"I know five people died because of my actions!" Napoleon snarled, his rising blood pressure reigniting the pain in his head. "Did you think I would dismiss the incident – wave my hand and say, 'Oh, well, it happens'?"

"Why, Napoleon?" Illya insisted vehemently.

"Because she looked just like Marmy!" Napoleon's voice cracked on the last word, the sound of her name opening wounds he'd thought were long healed.

Illya's gaze went from glacial to apologetic in a fraction of a second, eyes widening as the impact of his words set in. But Napoleon looked away, burying his forehead wearily against the back of the sofa. His body, his mind, his heart....everything hurt, a sharp, piercing kind of agony that left him shaking.

The cushions beneath Napoleon shifted, and then warm, strong arms wrapped around him and squeezed.

"Illya–" he started to say, but was quickly hushed.

"Shhhh, Napasha. You needn't explain further; I understand."

Illya was being truthful, he knew; very few people had experienced as much loss as his partner had. Grateful for the break in tension, Napoleon sank back into the embrace.

"Lie down," Illya coaxed, gently maneuvering both of them until they were spooned together underneath the coat.

Napoleon stared into the fireplace. The flames were starting to retreat, leaving glowing embers behind. It was a sad parallel to so many facets of his life.

"You miss her a lot, don't you?"

Napoleon nodded. God, how he missed her sometimes, wishing fervently that he could wind back the clock and relive those nine wonderful months of wedded bliss all over again. They'd been so young, so happy – and so foolish to believe it would last forever. What a merciless master Life was, first giving and then taking away, showing no pity in the face of tragedy...

Illya's arms tightened around him, forcing the ghosts to scatter. "Is that why you chase all the beautiful girls? To help you forget?"

A grin tugged unwillingly at Napoleon's mouth. "Temporary diversions, all of them," he said. A few heartbeats later, though, he amended, "Well, almost all of them, anyway."

Illya chuckled, the short puffs of his breath making Napoleon shudder. "And what about the beautiful boys?"

Napoleon froze. "Excuse me?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"This _is_ a joke, right?"

"I would never joke about the little black book inside your little black book, Napoleon." The smirk in Illya's tone was unmistakable.

Releasing a long, slow breath, Napoleon had no choice but to admit defeat. "And just how long have you known about the little black book inside my little black book?"

He felt Illya shrug. "A long time."

"And you never said anything?"

"It was more fun to watch you being covert about the whole thing."

The warmth Napoleon felt from all sides was like magic, soothing raw nerves and dampening aches of all kinds. He drifted peacefully for a while, savoring the unexpected shift in mood. "So, you've known this whole time," he said, weariness pulling at him despite the fascinating discussion they were having.

"Yes, Napoleon."

"I'll be damned..."

"Get some rest, Pasha," Illya urged gently.

Napoleon blinked, fighting against traitorous eyelids. "We should try to reach headquarters again." He would have to face the firing squad at some point; might as well not put it off any longer.

Illya shifted, snuggling closer. "Already done. If the weather clears as predicted, a chopper will be here after daybreak."

As the room fell silent again, something niggled at Napoleon, exhaustion bringing forth thoughts he'd only dared to dream of in the past. "Did you ever consider....flirting with me?" he asked, the words slurring together.

The reply came to him as a whisper, barely audible, that tickled his ear and slid down his spine in a shimmering sprinkle of pleasure that made his toes curl. As consciousness slipped away from him, finally ending the day of nightmares, Napoleon smiled.

~ * ~ **finis** ~ * ~


End file.
